Deliverance
by Phantasmagoric Kaleidoscope
Summary: Depressed and ready to die, Arthur Kirkland travels to Paris in order to visit one last place before he commits suicide - before he can he's 'rescued' by an obnoxious Frenchman, who's convinced he can be saved. Human AU. FrUk, some USUK. Rated T.
1. Chapter One: Shakespeare and Company

**Deliverance**

**Summary: **Depressed and ready to die, Arthur Kirkland travels to Paris in order to visit one last place before he commits suicide - before he can he's 'rescued' by an obnoxious Frenchman, who's convinced he can be saved. Human AU. FrUk. Rated T (subject to change).

**Warning: **slash-y stuff, some swearing, suicide and mental illness/self destructive behaviours.

* * *

**Chapter One: Shakespeare and Company**

Arthur Kirkland had gone to Paris for one reason. He had no desire to see the Louvre, or the Arc de Triomphe, or, God help him, the monstrosity that was the Eiffel tower. He'd flown the one hour, twenty-five minute long flight from London to Paris for a two night stay. A pit stop, really. His last trip. He'd gone to Paris for a bookshop. Not just _any _bookshop, mind you, but one of the most magnificent bookshops in the world. _Shakespeare and Company_. He'd heard of it from a friend of a friend, looked at pictures, and hurriedly added it to his list of places that he absolutely needed to visit. He'd done most of them, but he was running out of time.

There's no way he could carry on. He couldn't stand to make the long flight over the Atlantic to visit the last few places on his list. He'd just have to deal with his failure.

He'd left London in rain and landed in equally bloody terrible weather. He'd checked into the hotel (he struggled with that, as the bloody French refused to speak a word of English) and unpacked his clothes. He wouldn't be there long, but it gave him a strange satisfaction to see clothes neatly hanging up. But no satisfaction was greater than crossing something from a list. His current list - his _last _list, he reminded himself, was tucked away in the middle of his notebook. Listbook? It was a small thing, bound in brown leather, small enough for his inside coat pocket but big enough so that his handwriting didn't look untidy or cramped. He sat on the edge of the queen sized bed and read through the last four items.

_- visit Shakespeare & Co _

_- write note _

_- call A. _

_- kill self. _

It was a very simple list. The note shouldn't take long as he'd been planning it in his head for three weeks, he'd memorised it, almost word for word. He'd considered a few times adding 'eat last meal' onto the list. There were a few reasons that was omitted: one, he'd not had much appetite, need, or want for food lately, and two: where would he find a decent meal in _France?_

The saddest of all was that he'd never garner the satisfaction of crossing the last ever thing from his last ever list.

He rubbed his forehead, took a deep breath, and left the hotel room.

Shakespeare and Company was situated on the left bank of the River Seine, on the 5th arrondissement. On the outside, the green shop looked small, and to a non-book lover, uninteresting. Arthur knew that even if he hadn't known it was there, he'd have found it somehow. Him and books, they went together like scones and jam. He was always found a good bookshop, no matter where he went. They were compatible.

However, French builders clearly didn't care much for compatibility - Shakespeare and Company was closed for 'one day only'. He sighed. He probably should have suspected that something would go horribly wrong if he went to Paris. He trailed back to the hotel, slowly, letting the rain soak his hair. He couldn't even bring himself to complain silently (though the weather report did predict 'sun with cloudy intervals'). He was share the two receptionists glared at him as he trailed water through the lobby - he scowled back at them. This had ruined his day. Worst of all, it had thrown his list to shit.

He really did think about crossing it off anyway, after all, he had seen it. But _that _would be dishonest. He'd have to change his plans. He sat at the desk, hotel pen in his hand, ready to write his note. And then his mind went blank. Who did he plan to address the letter to, again? Certainly not his brothers? They wouldn't care. Would they even notice if he went missing? He smiled at the thought, that, one day, he might suddenly pop into one of their heads, and then they'd sigh and shrug and carry on with their merry little lives. Bastards. He _did _have some friends. Kind-off. Well, not really friends. Not even acquaintances. Some people who he happened to work with. When he'd been with Alfred all their friends had been _his _friends. He really, really couldn't address to _Alfred. _

With an ego the size of his, he'd think the whole thing was his fault. It was only partly his fault.

Arthur sighed with frustration, and decided to check the minibar. Of course, nothing appetising, but he'd try the damned French beer. He sat back down at the desk with the beer, grimacing at the taste.

He glared at the blank piece of paper. How did those useless junk mail letters begin?

_To whom it may concern…_

As soon as Arthur wrote it down, he knew it was ridiculous. It didn't stop him from making a brief outline of what the actual letter might say. Suddenly everything sounded so pathetic. He finished the beer before tearing up the piece of paper and watching it flutter around him.

Okay. So clearly fate was messing with him. All these things were happening for a reason. He lookout another beer, not daring to look at the price (with any luck he'd be too dead to pay for it) and drank half of it quickly.

Perhaps if he just let destiny decided whether or not he lived. That seemed fair. He took his phone from his pocket. He hadn't deleted the number from his favourites yet. It hadn't been him to add it there in the first place - Alfred had.

_If Alfred answers, I won't kill myself. _

It didn't even ring. His phone was switched off, which was fair enough. He left a quick message asking for him to call back as soon as he could.

_If he calls back…I won't kill myself. _

Artur sits at the desk once again with a third beer (though he doesn't feel like it and his head is getting a little but fuzzy) and stares at new sheet of hotel stationary paper. _Dear…no. _

_I've been thinking about this for a long time. _

He writes some more, but tired and frustrated, he screws it up and buries his head into his arms on the desk.

He wakes up in the pitch black hotel room, his neck stiff. He'd fallen asleep with his wet jacket still on, and it had soaked though his jumper and made his shirt damp. He took off the coat and jumper and dumped them on the bed. He flicked on the lamp beside the bed and looked around. Rain pattered heavily on the window pane. He fished the notebook from his coat pocket to check the ink had't ran and stuck it in his trouser pocket. It poked out but he liked to have it on his person. His mouth felt stale with the beer. He shuffled into the bathroom to brush his teeth. Perhaps the minty smell cleared his head, because suddenly the reason he was even here popped back into his head. He spat, dropping his toothbrush in the sink and ran to his phone.

No calls. Maybe his phone was still switched off. He rang him again. It rang twice before it was answered and immediately hung up.

It was anger that made Arthur throw the phone towards the wall, and satisfaction came when it shattered quite easily. He was breathing heavily and he didn't quite know why.

Alfred _must _have listened to the message. He must have. And he didn't want to speak to him, even though he asked, begged to - he _needed _to. He was trying to hold back his tears, which was nearly impossible. He didn't take the time to pick up his coat as he stormed out of the hotel room.

It was judgement day. His judgement day.

He was going to jump into the Seine. It was five minutes to midnight. The rain battered him. He felt ill as he stared into the black waters. But he was ready. He thought of, briefly, for all the people who might miss him. His boss, perhaps, if only because he did most of the work.

Before he jumped, he felt a hand grab his wrist tightly, pulling him away from the edge.

He turned, and was faced with someone whose lips were moving but who wasn't saying anything. Well, nothing in English, anyway.

"What? I don't understand a bloody word you're saying!" Arthur said. The Frenchman _tutted _at him and rolled his eyes.

"_Anglais_?" he said, and not waiting for an answer, he began to drag Arthur further away. "Come on."

For the life of him, Arthur had no idea why he followed him.

* * *

**A/N:**

**1) Shakespeare and Company is a real bookstore in Paris. It's quite cool and interesting, and it looks pretty (if you're a book lover, that is).**

**Also, please review and let me know what you think.**


	2. Chapter Two: Red wine and Roses

**Chapter Two: Red wine and Roses**

Arthur woke up in unfamiliar surroundings and with a dull thudding in his head. He sat up in the bed, tangled in sheets made of red silk. He stumbled out of them, more than confused than annoyed. Though he was definitely still annoyed. He had four important things to do yesterday and he'd failed at all of them. He didn't even know where he _was. _The last thing he remembered was standing near the Seine, _ready._ And then he showed up - bloody French, they ruin everything. He looked at himself. How on Earth had he been swindled out of his clothes? He'd definitely been wearing them last night. He was only wearing his underwear. There was a dressing gown at the end of the bed, that looked to have been left for him. He took that, wrapping it tightly around himself before padding barefoot out into the flat. It was more brightly coloured than the rich red of the bedroom. The walls were a pale white-yellow, the curtains were open and sun streamed in.

"Ah, _bon jour, mon petit lapin. _Would you like a coffee?" said the man. He was sat at a light-oak table, a newspaper open before him, though his did not seem very interested in the content.

"No." Arthur said. "And what did you just call me?"

"Well, you haven't told me your name." the man said, he stood up. They were about the same height, and neither of the men were very tall.

"You didn't ask." Arthur said. "It's Arthur."

"And I am Francis." he said, taking Arthur's hand and attempting to kiss it. Arthur snatched it away.

"Don't." Arthur said. The Frenchman smirked. "Where are my clothes, you bloody pervert?"

"You were soaking wet last night, Arthur." Francis said, stroking his hair back and smirking, "I think you mean to say _merci._"

Arthur could think of a million things to say to Francis, but 'thank you' wasn't one of them, unless it was _Thanks for ruining my suicide, you stupid Frog. _

Arthur bit his tongue. "Thank you. I suppose."

"_Non. _In French."

"Not bloody likely." Arthur said. He was still stood rather awkwardly in the middle of the kitchen, the Frenchmen standing just six inches away, far too close for Arthur to be comfortable.

"Say thank you in French, and you'll get your clothes back." Francis said. Arthur glared in response. He'd never met anyone quite so infuriating.

"You come to France and you don't even bother to learn the language, the language of love and beauty."

"Nobody speaks French outside of France." Arthur grumbled. "English is the international language."

"I believe, in Canada, they also speak French."

"Nobody cares about Canada." Arthur said. "Just give me my clothes back and I'll get out of your way."

"Is that what you want, Arthur, to get out of people's way?" Francis said. "Is that why you were stood by the Seine?"

"No. Bugger off." Arthur said. "I was just looking."

"It didn't look like you were just looking. You were very sad. That's why I brought you back here, I couldn't leave a man in your state alone."

"I wasn't in any state! I just want my clothes back!"

"You were crying about a love, a lost love, and you needed someone to get you warm. I couldn't have left you." Francis continued, to Arthur's growing irritation. "You - "

"Thank you! _Merci! _There!" Arthur interrupted, "Now, I want my clothes back. Please."

"Hmm. Well, you only get three out of ten for pronunciation. One out of ten for attitude…"

"Oh shut up. You should listen to the way you're butchering English."

"You cannot butcher a steak, it's already been butchered."

Francis was surprised when the Englishman's shoulders began to shake, wondering if he'd upset a fragile state, and for a millisecond, was again concerned (he'd been much more concerned before Arthur had opened his mouth) but he quickly realised that Arthur was laughing.

"What?" Francis said. The Englishman sat down on the nearest chair.

"You." Arthur said. "You're ridiculous."

"I am not." Francis said. "I _am_ worried about your mental health! Why don't you show some gratitude?"

"Don't be." Arthur said. "And I'll have my clothes."

Francis took the clothes from behind the armchair, neatly folded, clean, warm and dry.

"Thank you. Excuse me whilst I get dressed." Arthur said, beginning to retreat back into the bedroom.

"Wait. What are you doing today?" Francis said.

"Going back to my hotel." Arthur said.

"Why don't you let me take you for lunch and show you Paris?"

"No." Arthur said. "I'd rather not see it."

"Please, as one last thank you for me saving your life."

"You did not save my life." Arthur said. "But I suppose it would be the polite thing to humour you."

"Fantastic." Francis smiled.

"I will have to go back to my hotel room, first." Arthur said.

"I'll walk there with you." Francis said.

"Surely we could just meet."

"We could, but I don't trust that you will."

Arthur didn't answer. He was desperate to get rid of Francis, but he had the feeling that he wouldn't be able to shake him off easily.

Francis stared at the book. He knew it was only a matter of time before Arthur realised it was not in the pocket. Francis had found and read it before he put the trousers in the wash. And again in the mooning. Truth be told, it was the simplistic, blasé way it was written down that disturbed him. He didn't care about a grumpy, bushy-eyebrowed (albeit _almost_ good-looking) Englishman. He just didn't want a suicide on his conscience. The door opened. Arthur appeared in the doorway, standing still and staring at the table.

"My notebook."

"I didn't want to ruin it in the machine." Francis said, pointing at it.

"Thank you." Arthur said. His face was rather pale. He had no way of telling whether Francis had read it or not.

"Now, show me the way to your hotel, Arthur." Francis said, getting up from his chair. Arthur quickly pocketed the book and followed Francis from the flat and onto the streets of Paris.

Francis's flat was not far away from Arthur's hotel. Arthur almost felt himself blush when Francis followed him into his room. Housekeeping hadn't apparently been around yet. The room was dull, the light emitted from the lamp was orangey and dim. It smelt of beer, and paper was ripped up all over the place.

"Excuse the mess." Arthur said.

"Rough night, last night, _mon cher?_" Francis said. He attempted to keep a smile on his face, but the hotel room just looked sad.

"Of sorts."

"What happened to your phone?" Francis said.

"It fell violently out of my hand and against the wall." Arthur said. "I'm going to have a shower." He took new clothes and underwear from the wardrobe. Francis cocked an eyebrow.

"I'll be waiting for you." Francis said, sitting on the bed as Arthur disappeared into the bathroom.

Francis looked around the dim room before throwing the curtains open and a opening the window to let air in. The beer smell was soon replaced by a fresher smell. The rain last night had driven the clouds away, and Francis was sure the sun would be shining brightly by mid-afternoon.

He tried sitting on the bed again, but Francis simply wasn't comfortable sitting on someone else's bed when he wasn't going to have sex with them. Not that he'd say _no. _He just highly doubted that the situation would arise. Not any time soon, anyway. No, for once, sex was not the agenda (it _was _on his mind though, it always was). See, giving to charity was passé and volunteering wasn't his thing.

So, occasionally, if he happened across someone in need, he'd show them the beauty of life and France. A bit of beauty and a bit of love was all a person really needed.

He left the bed and picked up the pieces of the phone, placing them on the desk, deciding on a bit of pre-housekeeping cleaning.

"I was hoping if I stayed in there long enough you'd leave." Arthur said, snippily.

"_Non, _it is not that easy." Francis said. "You clean up well."

"I wish I could say the same for you." Arthur said.

"So, where would you like to go? _Musée du Louvre?_" Francis said.

"No." Arthur said.

"Then let us go." Francis said, guiding Arthur with by his elbow through the door.

Arthur put his foot in the door before the could leave.

"No. It's not what I planned to do, it's not on the list so we're not doing it - "

"Do you have your notebook?" Francis said.

"Yes." Arthur said. "Of course. I always - "

"Leave it here, and then you can do what you want."

"That's not how it works." Arthur said. Francis sighed, snatched the book, threw it back into the hotel room, quickly pulled Arthur through and slammed the door.

"Now it is how it works." Francis said and began to stalk away.

"Francis." Arthur said. "The keys to the hotel room were still inside."

"Oh well. We can ask reception later."

It wasn't like him to follow, and it certainly wasn't like him to spontaneously follow an annoying Frenchman to look at painting. But perhaps that was exactly the point. Perhaps he should stop being like himself and start being more…not him. Then maybe Alfred would pick up his bloody phone. Not like he was going to let himself _care_ about that. Of course not. That was over. Alfred had made it perfectly clear that he wanted nothing to do with him. Fine.

He was bored. It wasn't that he didn't like the paintings - they were very nice - but that's it. Just _nice. _Not nearly as special as what Francis was making them out to be. He was talking very passionately.

"Are you an artist?" Arthur said, breaking his silence.

"Only in my free time." Francis said. "I'm a chef."

"How interesting."

"What is it that you do?"

"I worked in a bank."

"Worked?"

"I quit my job there a few weeks ago. I've been working part time in a bookstore."

"What kind of bookstore?"

"One that sells books." Arthur said. "It's called Glance Back Books. It specialises in rare and old books."

"Oh." Francis swallowed air, "What did you do? At the bank?"

"Financial advising."

"That sounds soul-crushing."

"It was." Arthur said. "I suppose it's for the best I quit, in the long run. Perhaps I should concentrate on what I actually _want _to do."

"Like what?"

"None of your business."

"But Arthur, we're friends." Francis said, draping an arm around Arthur's shoulder. "We should _tell each other everything." _He could barely hold his smile in, enjoying the expression Arthur had when he was mad.

"Bugger off." Arthur said. "Come on, what else in this bloody city is it that you want to show me?"

"I could never show you it all, _mon cher_." Francis grinned, "But I will show you what I can."

It had been a long day. Not one he'd enjoyed, per se, but he hand't hated it with as much vehemence as he thought he would.

"I'm taking you to the restaurant where I work - we do the best food in Paris."

"Which means it'll be disgusting rather than revolting."

Francis glared. "_You _are British. You do not get to comment on food. French food is a thousand times more delicious than the slop you enjoy across _la Manche._"

"At least in England we don't eat snails." Arthur muttered.

"You'll enjoy it, I promise. They many caters even to those with a less than refined palate."

Francis helped Arthur get into his hotel room (the receptionist still refused to speak a real language).

"I need to go home quickly, you will be alright?"

"Of course I will." Arthur said. "And don't feel obliged to come back."

As soon as he was gone, Arthur felt lonely. What if he actually _didn't _come back? He'd not thought about last night properly all day. He'd pushed it to the back of his mind. But now…he could do it now. He had a razor. But what if Francis found him? What if scarred him for life? That was selfish _and_ cruel. He much preferred to be only one of those at any one time. If he'd jumped last night it probably would have been weeks or even months before anyone found his body. No-one would care by then. What if he didn't die in time? Arthur wasn't afraid of dying, but he was certainly afraid of surviving. Alfred was still his emergency contact number on most documents. He'd be the first to know about how useless he was. So no, it was out of the question. What was he thinking, anyway, killing himself in _France? _By all rights he should do it at home.

There was a knock at his door half and hour later. Francis's face was obscured by a large bunch of red roses.

"That's an improvement."Arthur said.

"What?" Francis said, stepping in. "Here, _mon cher_. I wonder if this can spawn a smile."

For a second, Arthur considered staring him in stony silence, but the roses were supposed to be a nice gesture so he offered Francis a small smile.

"Thank you." Arthur said. "I wish you hadn't. But thank you."

"I knew you'd love them, I grew them." Francis said. "Now, are you ready?"

Arthur sat across from Francis, hoping that no-one mistook them for a couple. Francis wasn't helping matters. Twice he'd 'accidentally' touched his leg with his foot. Francis had ordered in fast French that Arthur didn't understand. He knew the bare minimum that he'd been forced to learn in school.

"What did you order?" Arthur said.

"You have to try it first."

"I won't eat snails."

"It's not snails." Francis said, smugly grinning. "I promise."

The waiter came back to the table carrying a bottle of wine, disregarding Arthur entirely to ask Francis's opinion on it. Arthur didn't care. Most wine tasted exactly the same to him, anyway.

"I'm not even hungry." Arthur said.

"We haven't eaten all day." Francis said. "You must be."

"Well, I'm not." Arthur said. He had eaten for three days, and even he wasn't sure why. He _was_ hungry, but there wasn't the urge there to perform the monotonous ritual of physically eating.

"You do like red wine?"

"Yes." Arthur said. "It's alright."

Francis smiled. "Why was it you were on the Pont Neuf?" He'd been building up to the question all day.

"I've told you. I wanted to look at the Seine?"

"I don't think the view of the Seine is very good when you're in the Seine. Drowning."

"Fine." Arthur said. "But it's none of your business. Thank you for not letting me jump, if that's what you want to hear."

"I just want you to know that it is not the right thing to do." Francis said. "Why would you - "

"A lot of things happened in a short space of time." Arthur said.

"You don't seem like the type of man who would let things get ahead of him."

"You don't know me."

"I want to." Francis said. He stopped pushing the matter as soon the food arrived.

* * *

**A/N: **

**Firstly, thank you to anyone who favourited/reviewed/followed, I really appreciate it. **

**Secondly '**_**la Manche' **_**is the French name for the Channel, which I actually didn't know until I wrote this. You learn something everyday :) **

**This is going to be about 5 chapters long, unless I carried away with editing and end up writing more or write an epilogue. I should update at least one or twice a week.**

**Also, please review :) **


	3. Chapter Three: Admirable Traits

**Chapter Three: Admirable Traits **

Arthur woke up for the second time in three days with a stiff neck. He had spent the night on the floor. Francis had, for some reason, insisted on coming back to the hotel with him. Arthur had downright refused sharing a bed with Francis. He was thankful for this when morning came, and he sat up and looked over to the bed: the man slept like in the most ridiculous way. At some point, late in the night he'd tried to push Francis off the bed and onto the floor, but whilst sleeping the somewhat slender Francis had transformed into a deadweight; he was simply impossible to shift.

Arthur didn't doubt that the floor had given him a more pleasant night than sharing a bed with Francis could have - even though his bones felt like they'd been through a wood-chipper. He felt somewhat pleased to know that his drunken self had some semblance of sanity.

He checked his watch. It was half-past eleven, he closed his eyes briefly and settled back down onto his makeshift bed. He was not a morning person, and he'd and for that he had been tortured his entire life. He could maybe get at least another twenty minutes before it was really necessary to wake up. He could almost feel slipping back into a slumber, despite his pained neck, back and shoulders.

And then it hit him. He hadn't changed the time on his watch, and the bloody French were an hour ahead of the proper time. He only had thirty minutes before he had to check out of the hotel.

He leapt up from the floor, suddenly frantic. He hit his head on the beside table, swore at himself loudly - but the Frenchman didn't even grunt. Arthur showered quickly (taking caution to lock the door first, for obvious reasons). He dressed in a hurry, buttoning his shirt incorrectly and having to start again. When he'd packed his suitcase (securing his notebook underneath all his clothes, safe) he took a minute to watch the sleeping Frenchman. He wasn't sure whether to wake him or not. Perhaps he should just leave him. Room service would find him eventually.

"Where are you going?" Francis mumbled into the pillow.

"I have to check out." Arthur said. "In five minutes. Come on, hurry up."

"Were you going to leave me here?"

Arthur shrugged. He'd actually been considering slamming the door to wake the sleeping Frenchman, as not to be rude.

"Wait." Francis said, clambering out of the bed. He too, was not a morning person. His own lack of grace at any point before one in the afternoon embarrassed him. He'd always excused himself with the fact that he worked nights.

"I don't have time."

"You're much more agreeable after a glass of wine."

"You're much less of a git."

Francis started to get dressed. "Are you leaving?"

"Yes."

"Back to London?"

"Yes." Arthur said. "Of course."

"Maybe you should stay." Francis said.

"I can't." Arthur said. "I have to go to work."

"You can be sick for a day." Francis said. "Stay until Tuesday."

"I have aeroplane tickets." Arthur said.

"But how will you go on without me?" Francis said, only half joking.

"I'll survive."

He followed Arthur into the lobby and waited for him to check out, wearing a bored pout as he watched him. As soon as he was done, Arthur paused in front of Francis.

"Thank you. For yesterday. Now, don't expect me to say it again. Piss off."

"At least tell me your phone number." Francis said. "So I can call you."

"You saw the state my phone was in." Arthur said. "There's no point."

It was obviously just an excuse, but either Francis was more dense than he seemed and couldn't take a hint or was incredibly persistent.

"Then wait a second." Francis took a piece of paper and borrowed a pen from the receptionist (Arthur was sure he unnecessarily flirted with her to get it; as the woman blushed). Francis scrawled his number, and his name, before drawing a big heart around it and handing it to Arthur.

"You can call me. When you land or get a new phone."

Arthur folded it and put it in his pocket, walking out onto the street.

"Uh, Arthur." called Francis, still in the hotel.

"_What?!_"

"Do you want to take your suitcase?" Francis said. Arthur screamed inwardly, before turning on his heel. He glowered at the suitcase as though it was the luggage's own fault he'd almost forgotten it. Francis was laughing delightedly. Arthur took it, and Francis grabbed his arm.

"There's a taxi waiting for me."

"Promise you'll phone me."

"Fine. I will." Arthur said, biting his inner cheek. He was lying.

"_Bon._" Francis said, Arthur began to pull away before Francis decided to go all in and kiss Arthur's cheek. His reply was a solid push, which sent Francis stumbling back three paces, but the look on the man's face was smug.

"If you ever kiss me again, I'll bite your bloody lips off." Arthur said, walking away (this time, suitcase definitely in tow).

Francis just continued to laugh and blew him a kiss as he got into the taxi.

Francis, although he had pride in himself for doing such a good deed, felt worried. What if it had only been a slight delay in the man's quest for self-extinction? What if he was going to go back to England and throw himself off the first bridge he saw?

Surely he wouldn't do that? No-one who had kissed him could possibly considering doing such a thing - they'd be desperate for more. He smiled to himself - he was known for his sexual prowess.

Yes, maybe Arthur would show up at his apartment, desperate to find out what he'd missed out on last night. He knew this was unlikely, but somewhere inside of himself Francis hoped this might actually happen.

It didn't, of course, and when hours passed he simply assumed that the Englishman had decided to go back to his dreary country.

When Arthur returned home, he didn't feel like he was at home at all. They say home is where the heart is, and he wasn't sure where his heart was. He'd always found that phrase particularly annoying, it would be on his list of 'Most annoying phrases, idioms and proverbs' - if such a list existed. Of course he didn't have a list like that. _Everything happens for a reason _was the most annoying, and utter bollocks at that. Having a cake and eating it - who on earth came up with that gem? Isn't the purpose of cake eating it? What else can you do with cake? He sighed at himself. No wonder no-one wanted to spend extended time with him. Even his family thought he was petty and opinionated. He threw the contents of his suitcase straight into the washing machine, and placed the notebook on the counter. He stared at it, like it was a hostile force as the washing machine whirred away and the kettle boiled. He wanted to burn it. He wanted to write in it, write a new list. But what would that achieve? What would it achieve or even matter if he _did _kill himself?

He'd never wanted anything less or more. He was torn. He was scared.

He left the notebook unattended as he approached his landline telephone. He took the crumpled number from his pocket…he didn't dial. His answering machine had eleven messages. He smiled, hopeful. But the first message was a voice he didn't recognise, so he deleted it after the first two words. The second one was identical. So he deleted them all. Probably someone selling something he didn't want. Albeit rather consistently.

The kettle was done. He wasn't ready to burn the notebook yet, but he could lock it away in the kitchen draw and try to forget about it. He finished making his tea, and settled on the sofa to stare at a blank television screen.

He'd fallen asleep - at least the sofa was comfortable. He woke up to the sound of the intercom buzzing. Bleary-eyed he staggered over to the intercom.

"Hello?" he said.

"Arthur?" said a voice, that seemed familiar but he couldn't place it.

"Who is this?"

"Matthew."

"Who?"

"Matthew Williams."

"Sorry?"

The other voice sighed. "Alfred's brother."

"Oh. Uh…"

"Can I come up."

Arthur pressed the unlock button. A minute later Alfred's half-brother appeared in his doorway. In that minute, Arthur had managed to light up the flat so it didn't look quite so depressing.

"Sorry. The intercom is fuzzy. I didn't recognise your voice." Arthur said. Matthew shrugged. His hair was wet. "Is it raining?"

"Yeah." he said. "So…you're okay?"

Arthur closed the door behind the Canadian. He was taken aback. Did Matthew have some kind of a sixth sense?

"Why wouldn't I be?"

"Well you managed to scare the crap out of Alfred for a start. And we've called like a million times."

"What do you mean?" said Arthur. "I haven't _had _any messages from you or Alfred or anyone. And I wasn't aware that Alfred even cared so - "

"Don't be a prat. Alfred's been calling you non-stop on your cell and he's called here, leaving messages. He hasn't left me alone, getting me to call you, too. Don't you listen to your messages? There must have been a dozen. He begged me to come check on you."

"Check on me? I don't need checking on. If he's so worried why couldn't _he… _"

"I was in Scotland for a meeting for work." Matthew said. "So I could get here sooner. What have you been doing?"

"I was on holiday." Arthur said. "That's it."

"On _holiday? _Why did you call Alfred and leave a twenty-seven minute long message about - "

"I was drunk. Bloody hell people do stupid things when they're drunk, didn't you know?"

"Arthur, don't be a jerk."

"Of course." Arthur said. "Do you want a coffee?"

"That's not what I meant." Matthew said. "But sure."

To Arthur's chagrin, Matthew followed him into the kitchen. He'd hoped that making the coffee would give him a few minutes to regain composure.

"Where did you go?"

"Just Paris. I wanted to see a bookshop." Arthur said. "How do you like your coffee?"

"Just milk." Matthew said. "Did you really not get any messages? I hope Alfred didn't give me the wrong number and I left them all on someone else's machine. "

Arthur nearly smiled at the thought of some very confused person hearing those messages, until he remembered that he _had _got them. He just hadn't listened to them.

"Maybe. My answering machine has a habit of swallowing messages." He didn't know when he'd turned into such a good liar. It wasn't a very admirable trait, but it was a useful one.


	4. Chapter Four: Unwanted Visitors

**Deliverance Chapter Four: Unwanted Visitors**

* * *

Francis wasn't one to ponder, unless it was a particularly dark and uncharacteristically cold night. Tonight was one of those nights. He sat in his living room, the window open (though it was cold the breeze was fine) and pondered, staring at the half-full (for he was an optimist) wine glass on his coffee table. He wasn't feeling peaceful. Irritated, annoyed and perplexed. If it was gullible to think that Arthur would actually call him, then call him gullible. He didn't think that the man would call him and they'd become best friends, but this was malicious. Having him worry like this, about someone he didn't know - cruel.  
Even at _work_ he'd been thinking about it. And he loved his job - at work he liked to think about work. He looked forward to working, he switched his phone off and got on with it, not even checking it on his break. His co-workers noticed he was preoccupied, even. He nearly sliced his finger. Almost as bad - he'd nearly sliced someone _else's _finger.  
When he checked his phone afterwards, he had a missed call from a particularly beautiful, exotic woman and even received a text inviting him over. He didn't even reply. He wondered if he was ill.  
He'd _never _turned down such an invitation before. He didn't even regret his decision to ignore the second call. He didn't regret the decision to return home even though the night was young.  
He definitely didn't regret opening the bottle of wine he'd been saving for a special occasion. He had all the ingredients for a peaceful night: low lights, ambient music, cool, crisp air, red wine aerating, readying itself for him to drink. All the ingredients were right there. He felt tense, alone, uncomfortable.  
It was a strange, alien feeling. It had been two days (technically one day and eighteen hours, but who was counting?) and if he didn't get a call soon, he'd have to take matters into his own (very capable) hands.

* * *

Arthur was not used to guests. It wasn't as though they were completely unwelcome, he just never had any purpose for them. It'd been a while since he'd had any company at all. The only contact he'd had with people in general was at work, and the very occasional phone call from one of his brothers.

Waking up to someone cooking had to be his idea of a nightmare. The last thing he wanted in the morning was the sickeningly sweet smell of pancakes infiltrating his nostrils. All he ever wanted in the morning was an extra hour in bed, and _then _a cup of tea. After that he was happy with waiting. It took a few hours for him to feel hunger, normally, and especially lately he hadn't felt like eating much at all. But he sat up on sofa and went into the kitchen. Matthew was cooking, the radio was playing softly, and the sink was full of soapy water.

"Good morning." Matthew said, too brightly. He sounded too much like Alfred.

"Yeah. Morning." Arthur said.

"Are you hungry?"

"Not really."

"Oh."

Arthur heisted. He really wasn't hungry, but had Matthew always looked that much like Alfred? And now he'd offended him.

"A bit, actually. Now that I think about it."

_What are you doing here, why won't you leave? _

"Great. You don't have any maple syrup so I - "

Arthur had stopped listening. The Canadian was startlingly easy to ignore, especially when the sound of the kettle boiling was blocking him out.

As nosily as he could manage without breaking the cup, he placed down on the hard kitchen countertop.

"I have to work." he said. "You can stay here, if you want…but I won't be here."

It wasn't a real invitation, Arthur thought, he wouldn't let it be. He _liked_ being alone.

"Okay. If you're sure you don't mind."

Arthur's mind split into two. On one hand, he wanted to tell Matthew to piss off and leave him alone. On the other hand, he needed someone to just _be _there. Obviously he couldn't say that, so he just shrugged and pained a nonchalant look on his face.

"I don't mind." he said.

"Great. We were really concerned about you, you know, Arthur." Matthew said, pushing a pancake onto a plate and holding it out to Arthur.

"I appreciate the concern. I'm just afraid it was misplaced."

Arthur was glad to be back at work. The bookshop smelt…well, like home. Not his flat, nothing like that. It smelt like comfort and familiarity. He was there alone for three hours, and then he'd been joined on the shift for two hours by a co-worker. He opened out, logged into the computer. He switched on the radio in the back of the store, playing a classical music station, quietly, for a bit of background noise. He relaxed behind the counter, taking out a book and not quite believing he could get paid for this.

Time passed slowly, he was rarely interrupted, once by an old lady who needed help finding a book for her grandson (and her apparent hyperopia meant that she'd completely missed it, despite it being right in front of her. Arthur did his best to diplomatically point this out) and once by a frustrated middle-aged man who wanted Arthur to materialise a special-order book out of thin air. Arthur bit his inner lip so hard it bled as he explained to the man that no, he wasn't a magician, and it wasn't going to arrive until Thursday.

His coworker Kiku, arrived mercifully early enough to help with a delivery. He was the only coworker Arthur didn't hate being alone with. Probably because he was quiet. Arthur liked quiet people. Unfortunately, he rarely had the good luck to come across them.

He hadn't long left on his shift would be over. And then someone both annoyingly familiar and annoying came in.

"So you _are _alive, mon cher." he said. "I had the most terrible flight. And it was raining as soon as I got here, typical - "

"Can I help you, frog?"

"Only by telling me why you didn't let me know you were well, as you promised."

"I lost your number. Sorry." Arthur said, shrugging. "I'm working, so will you bugger off?"

"You could not leave early, just this once?" Francis said, a smile all over his smug, handsome, annoying, French face.

Regrettably, Kiku agreed to cover for Arthur so he could leave early, despite the warning looks Arthur was trying to shoot him.

Arthur led Francis up the stairs to his flat.

"I can't believe you came here. Stalker."

"I didn't stalk you. I was concerned that you had not called me - "

"I lost it. I told you. I'm sorry." Arthur lied. "There is no need for you to be concerned."

"You keep saying that." Francis said. "The only person you're fooling is yourself."

_And not even that, _thought Arthur.

"I have a friend over."

A _friend, _mon cher?"

"A brother of an ex-friend." Arthur said. He opened the door of the flat. Matthew was reading.

"I thought you coming home at four? Who is this?"

"I am Francis, Arthur's friend." Francis said. And then Matthew replied in French. Too fast for Arthur to catch. Despite not liking Francis's presence, Arthur couldn't help but feel dejected. His stalker had immediately managed to find someone more interested to annoy.

"I didn't know you spoke French, Matthew." Arthur said, eventually.

"Uh..yeah." Matthew said. "I have - "

"How long have you two known each other?" Francis said.

"A while," Arthur said. "Do you want something to drink - "

Arthur was interrupted by a knock at the door. Francis stared at Arthur, smiling.

"Were you expecting anyone, mon cher?"

Arthur glared back as a response. "No."

"Uh, Arthur - " Matthew had started to say. Arthur ignored him.

He opened the door, and was greeted not by a hello, but by an _attack. _Or a hug. He wasn't sure which.

"Artie! You're OK!"

"I'm fine. Alfred. Thank you."

Never had his flat been so full before. It was suffocating.

"Why haven't you answered your cellphone, or your landline, if you insist on having something so ancient why not use it? Where've you been?'

"Away." Arthur said. He'd _wanted_ this. Four days ago he'd have given anything to be stood here with Alfred who _cared_ about him. But now he wasn't sure. For some reason, he didn't want Alfred here. Not when Francis was.

"Oh hey, Mattie, what are you doing here?"

"You told me to come."

"Oh yeah. Ha."

* * *

**A/N:**_** (Oh well hello plot device, I mean, Alfred, how nice of you to join us). **_

**Firstly (and more importantly) Thank you to anyone who has read/favourited/followed/reviewed this, it makes me feel all fuzzy and tingly inside. Yay :) **

**Secondly, I was going to update this like a fortnight ago. And then I didn't. And then I was like, okay, just edit it. And as I was editing it, I realised it was shit. So I rewrote it, and then rewrote it again. It's still pretty terrible, but a better terrible than the colossal terrible it was before. It was more colossally terrible than a colossal squid. **

**Also, if anyone happens to be interested (ha) I was listening to Depeche Mode's Personal Jesus whilst writing this. Lyrically, it has no importance to the chapter, I just had it on repeat.**


	5. Chapter Five: Awkward Encounters

**Deliverance Chapter Five: Awkward Encounters of the Third Kind**

It hit him like an anvil. _This _was his punishment for some evil deed he must have done in some kind of a former life. He wonders what kind of great evil it was that deserved this. And it would be so much easier to hate them all if they weren't being so bloody _nice _to him. Yet here he was, sandwiched between a wall and a hard place - well, Francis. Alfred was opposite him, judging him with treacherous blue eyes. Matthew was next to Alfred, recovering from the embarrassment spawned from the waitress had neglected to take his order and had been called back (rather loudly) by Alfred.  
"You still haven't answered the question." Alfred said, his face uncharacteristically serious (Arthur wishes he had a camera so he could have everlasting proof that Alfred did care for him, somewhat).  
"And you didn't answer mine." Arthur said, though he didn't actually want an answer. He just wanted to delay.  
"I don't think he wants to talk about this." Francis said. Arthur breathed out. Well, _someone_ had to be on his side.  
"He can say that." Alfred said.  
"I don't want to talk." Arthur said. He felt Francis's hand on his knee. He batted it away but it was replaced soon after. He didn't swat it away the second time. Not because he _wanted _it there. But because it would just be there again in a few seconds. Of course.  
"I don't think we should discuss this here, anyway." Francis said.  
"Yeah." Alfred said. "Wait till we get back."  
Arthur glared at Francis, who muttered "You need to talk to someone,_ mon cher._" In his ear, as though they really knew or liked each other.  
"There's nothing to talk about." Arthur said, and no-one believed him. He didn't even believe himself, really. His voice held no conviction.  
"So. What have you been doing Artie?"  
"Nothing." Arthur said, semi-truthfully.  
"Not much, I've been really busy with college."  
"I'm sure."

Glances were exchanged around the table, but nothing else was said until Alfred and Francis started making idle talk. Arthur was starting to get a headache, he hated restaurants. They were always so full of people making such unnecessary noise. He especially hated them when he wasn't drunk. It's not like there was anything exactly stopping him from drinking, but when he was drunk his mouth had a tendency to betray his brain and better judgement. He needed all the judgment he could get, there would be certainly an onslaught when they got back. He wasn't hungry, either, not really. He pushed the food disinterestedly around his plate. He wished he had his notebook. That way he could at least make a list of the reasons he hated restaurants.

* * *

Alfred and Arthur were sat on Arthur's sofa, and they'd been doing so for nearly forty-five minutes in complete silence, other than the occasional bored or irritated sigh.

"Are you sure you're okay?" Alfred said.  
"Wonderful."  
"You don't sound it."  
"Well, I feel it." Arthur said. He glanced into the kitchen, where Francis was still talking to Matthew, about God only knows what because it was in bloody _French.  
_"They're getting along." Alfred said, staring at the blank television screen as though he could turn it on with his mind.  
"Yes."  
"And you're definitely okay?"  
Arthur sighed, his teeth grinding against each other. "Yes."  
"For real?"  
Arthur had stopped breathing through his mouth altogether as it was so tightly clamped shut in frustrate that when he did talk, the sound came out of the right corner of his mouth.  
_"Yes."  
_"So you'll tell me what's wrong?"  
"Ye - _no, _because nothing is wrong. Bugger off, will you, you're giving me a headache."  
"You're lying." Alfred said. Arthur rolled his eyes at the childish, almost pouting expression on Alfred's face. "Francis thinks so too."  
"Well you and _Francis _can think what you like, but you'll be thinking wrong. Why don't you two both just leave together seeing as you think so much alike just like…" He just stopped talking. Alfred tested the air.

"I've said sorry like a million times."  
"When you apologise, Alfred, it's custom to actually mean it."  
"I did."  
"Then why did you leave and why are you here now?"  
"Just because I don't want to be with you doesn't mean I don't care."  
"That's exactly what it means." Arthur said. Alfred opened his mouth to protest, but Arthur continued to talk. "I'm going to bed. Do you have a hotel room?"  
"Yes."  
"Then go there and then go home, because there really is no reason for you be here. I'm sorry you've wasted your time."  
"I'm not going home because I know you don't mean it."  
"I mean it."

Arthur went to his bedroom, closing the door tightly behind him. His bed had never looked so inviting. He had no idea how tired he was. But he couldn't go to sleep until Alfred had gone. He didn't want to miss them talking about him. So he sat on the floor, in the dark, ear pressed up against the door, listening to them mumble. Alfred called out goodbye. Arthur stayed quiet. When the door had closed, he let himself exhale and get ready for bed, still tiptoeing around himself. He'd only just settled down in bed when the door creaked open and light shone through. He kept his eyes closed tightly.

Francis climbed _into bed next to him. _Arthur tried not to flinch. It would be easier to avoid any conversations if he was asleep.  
"They've gone."  
Arthur tried to slow his breathing, an act which becomes more and more difficult the more you become aware you are doing it.  
"I know you're awake, Arthur." Francis said.  
Arthur tried to fight thoughts about how nice Francis smelt out of his head.  
"They'll be back tomorrow afternoon."  
"Something else to look forward to." Arthur said.  
"You're lucky that they care."  
"They don't."  
"I care."  
"Only because you don't know me."  
"I'd like to."  
Arthur opened his eyes, shocked to see how close Francis was to him. When Francis took his hand, he was going to pull away, but he was just too tired to. He wasn't going to admit that it was actually nice.

"Bloody hell, are you _naked?!_"

* * *

**A/N: **Thank you to everyone who read/reviewed/followed or favourited.

It took me a while to write this. A lot of reasons, including breaking my little finger playing air hockey. Air hockey. I really don't like losing, even in air hockey. Those tables should be padded. Also, I had two colds and then there was the marshmallow/pancake/fire incident. Have you ever had melted marshmallow flicked in your eye? It hurt, like burning hurt, and my eye got sort-of welded together. I dropped the pan and the pancake caught fire. Lesson learnt, my friend is no longer allowed to use the microwave/handle marshmallows, we're never cooking together again, and I had no clue pancakes burnt so quickly. But I'll stop before I start to ramble.

Anyway, sorry this took so long. I would say it probably won't take as long next time, but it probably will.

(PS - the chapter title has nothing to do with anything. I just needed something to save the file in and I found it funny, so it stuck).


	6. Chapter Six: Letting Go

**Chapter Six: Letting Go**

After the discovery of Francis's choice of pyjamas (or lack thereof) Arthur had insisted he slept on the sofa. That being said, after getting over the traumatic experience Arthur had one of the best nights of sleep of his life. He wouldn't allow himself to think that this was because Francis was there and for once, he hadn't gone to sleep thinking about how lonely he was. Still, it wasn't like he cared. As long as he kept telling himself he didn't, he wouldn't.

He wanted to creep across the hall to have a shower without having to speak to or see Francis, but that was not likely - as soon as he opened the door Francis was there, mercifully, fully dressed.

"Bon jour." he said.

"Morning." Arthur grumbled, trying to walk past. Francis steps in his way. He doesn't look him in the eye.

"Where are you going?"

"To have a shower."

"Can I join you?"

"_No." _

Francis let out a light laugh, "Why not? I could wash your back."

Arthur felt his cheeks tinge pink at the suggestion, and pushed Francis out of the way.

"No. No, thank you. Perverted frog."

"You'll give in, one day."

"I highly doubt it." Arthur said, though he felt like he was holding onto a loose rock on a trembling mountain.

Francis just smiled (_smirked) _and planted a light kiss on Arthur's cheek. "Enjoy your shower, _mon amour_."

"Bugger off."

oOo

Lunch - a small, bustling Italian place. It was too busy, too crowded, Arthur was sat on the outside of the table and people walking past kept bumping into his shoulder.

"You said we could talk today." Alfred said.

"No, I didn't." Arthur said.

"Yeah, you did."

"No, I didn't - "

"I think it would be best if you were to talk to us." Francis said.

"Well I don't."

Arthur stood up, thankful that he was sitting on the outside of the table, and left. He was immediately aware that he was being followed, but didn't look back until they had crossed the road.

"Alfred, could you stop following me?"

"We need to talk about when we - "

"No." Arthur cut him off. There was no need to talk. As much as therapists liked to say otherwise, talking only ever served to make things worse.

"You're being immature."

"That's rich, coming from you."

"What do you mean by that?" Alfred said, he closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose underneath his classes. "Let's go back inside."

"No, Alfred. Go home back to _him. _Stop pretending to care."

"It's not nice to walk out on lunch, Arthur, it is the most important meal of the day." Francis said.

Alfred and Arthur regarded each other in silence, before Arthur turned on his heal and began to walk away.

"Hey, where's Matty?" he heard Alfred ask.

"I think he's still inside."

"I'm here."

Francis had stayed one or two paces behind Arthur the entire time they'd walked home, and they'd done so in silence. As soon as they'd entered his flat, however, Francis knew he couldn't keep silent any longer.

"I know you still have feelings for Alfred, Arthur." Francis said, "But you have them for me, too."

"I don't have feelings for anybody."

"I know that's not true, nobody could resist their feelings for me."

Arthur was more than angry about the fact what Francis was saying was true. He was finding it hard to deny, but he had to at least try not to. When you let other people know how you feel about them, that's when you get hurt.

"Of course I have feelings for Alfred, I've known him for years."

"What happened between you? Why are you so mad at him?"

"It's complicated." Arthur said. "No, it's not. He left me."

"I don't believe him leaving you would be enough to make you - "

"It's how he left me." Arthur said. "Not that it's any of your business…"

"Every time I think we are getting somewhere you - "

"Yes, I ruin things. I always have done. That's exactly my problem, Francis. I'm always best of when I'm left alone."

"I did not mean it like that."

"It'll be best for both of us if you just left me alone,"

"That's not true." Francis said, "It's never best to leave someone with a broken heart."

Arthur stared at him, not saying anything, eyes flickering like green fire.

"What?"

He couldn't possibly be suggesting what he thought he was suggesting.

"Arthur…"

"Go away, Francis, I haven't got _time _for you to behave pervertedly."

"If it's perverted for someone to share their feelings, then I am guilty, _mon cher_, but - "

"I have to go. I'll be back…at some time. In the near future."

Francis watched him leave, and physically winced at the sound of the door slamming closed.

Love was a complicated thing - he had loved before, and he loved many. But this was being _in _love, a completely separate concept. It was consuming.

There was nothing quite so awkward as being alone in someone else's home.

oOo

Arthur found his feet carrying him in the direction of Alfred's hotel. It wasn't a decision, as such, he just wasn't exactly unwilling. He walked along the familiar roads, wishing he'd thought about taking an umbrella or at least a coat before he'd stormed out. The walk wasn't painfully long, but the weather didn't make it seem any shorter, neither did the lack of street lamps. Arthur was sure he just wanted to talk, prove that he didn't completely wreck everything and Alfred didn't completely hate him (partially hating him he could deal with, and he could deal with anyone else wholly hating him - anyone but Alfred, he wasn't sure if Alfred hated anyone; he certainly didn't want to be the first).

He tried to stroll nonchalantly past reception, but he didn't really think anyone would stop him and demand to know where he was going. It was a hotel, not an airport. The prospect of having to interact with an annoyed or tired receptionist didn't especially excite him, either way.

He knocked three times on Alfred's door, the first were more confident than the last, which sounded half-hearted and faint, almost reluctant.

"I thought you were room service." Alfred said, the millisecond he opened the door, that brilliant smile fading just a bit.

"Am I a disappointment?" Arthur said, neither wanting nor expecting an answer.

"Yeah, sorta."

oOo

"Why did you go with him?" Arthur said. It really hadn't been what he wanted to say - he wanted to apologise. They'd gone outside, in front of the hotel, just for some air.

"I had to." Alfred said. It sounded like he was deflecting a question he didn't want to answer. It was unquestionably just because he hated Arthur.

"What did I do?" Arthur said. He'd been surprised that Alfred agreed to meet him.

"Arthur," Alfred said, "Dude, stop thinking about it. It didn't work. That's it."

"Yes but what does he do - "

"Francis likes you."

"He likes irritating me."

"Ha, I never thought you were stupid." Alfred said, "Grumpy, a little overbearing - "

"Shut up, Alfred."

"Sometimes mean."

"I am terrible, aren't I? Is that why you left?"

Alfred shook his head. "Not really. Well…um….I'm sorry that I left you for him, okay? In the way I did it. But I'm not sorry we broke up at all. I'm sorry I didn't answer the phone…when, jeez, you don't know who bad I feel about that, I was sick with worry…"

His voice trailed off, caught in the wind and drowned in the rain.

"I like Francis." Arthur said. He put the inside of his lip so hard that the familiarly metallic taste of blood appeared in his mouth. He took a short, sharp intake of air. "But I still love you."

"I am incredibly loveable."

"Keep telling yourself that." Arthur said, and they shared a quiet, unsteady laugh.

"You love him more." Alfred said. "I can tell. You don't even realise it, but you sorta lean in on each other. That's the best kind of love."

"It was never like that with us, was it?"

It didn't need to be said. Arthur looked up to the moon. "I'm sorry about earlier, Alfred."

Alfred nods his head.

"It's okay. I get it." he said. "It's not me is it, why you're sad?"

"No." Arthur said.

"I should get back to my room. I don't want Matty to get to the room service before me."

"Of course." Arthur said. "Thank you. For coming. And thank Matthew for me."

On his way back home, Arthur had quickly began to worry that Francis finally decided to listen to him, and had actually left. But as he approached the door, he could see cracks of yellow light shine through, alerting him to Francis's continued presence, as well as welcoming him back inside from the cold, misty rain. The key slid into the lock.

Arthur wanted nothing more to walk past Francis, who had clearly just came out of the shower and was sitting on his sofa in nothing but a towel, and lock himself back in the bedroom, but he just closed the door behind him and watched as Francis stood up and took a couple of steps forward.

Arthur did the same, until they were about two feet apart.

"I wanted to tell you - " Francis said. He really did have a nice…face.

"Don't say it." Arthur said. "I don't want to hear it. I don't want to hear anything."

"And what makes you think you know what I want to say, _mon coeur_"

"Because I want to say the same thing."

Much to Francis's surprise (and almost chagrin, this was his expertise, after all) it had been Arthur to instigate the kiss, drawing their lips together in soft bind. As soon as he had recovered from the shock, he slowly took over, moving closer to the other man, his hands taking on a life of their own…


End file.
